


eager to tear apart the stars

by reviloo



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Coming of Age, Depression, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Suicide, huge emphasis on mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reviloo/pseuds/reviloo
Summary: When I am upset, there is a person to talk if I need to.// And so, he puts a hand on her shoulder and talks. He tells her to breathe.
Relationships: Eddy Chen & Brett Yang
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	eager to tear apart the stars

**Author's Note:**

> please read the warnings one more time. the most major ones are put at the top; there are a few minor ones that i'll add below here, but didn't think were significant enough to warrant their own tag and own warning (except for the first, which is bolded):
> 
>  **> kids joking around about suicide/people generally not taking it seriously at all.**  
> > there is a scene with b/e where there's implied masturbation/handjob - it doesn't go into the actual nsfw scene (not comfortable;; with writing them lmao), hence why the story doesn't go into explicit, but please be aware.  
> > also! i guess on the above note, there are a few other scenes where they discuss sex/sex toys/pornography in general. please also be aware of that.  
> > this is a strictly platonic fic. (haven't written one in a while, ahahaha;;)
> 
> anyways, thank you to grandma (@tsvhide) and bread (@wholewheatbreddy) for birthing this fic. kudos for losing a bet, am i right LMAO
> 
> title from "Eager to tear apart the stars," an album by Leyland Kirby.

Eddy’s first real encounter with the notion of _suicide_ is in a minivan with his parents, the air stuffy despite the open windows and the wind blowing through his hair. It’s with a brand-new Windows phone, gifted to him on his 12th birthday, when he started to walk home by himself - he can’t play games on it, but he certainly can text away with his friends about typical (almost) teenager issues and other middle school drama that they hear about from the upper grades. It’s a frantic message, one that begins an inexplicable rush of adrenaline that shuts the world around him out.

_Maddie’s sister said she was going to kill herself._

Killing yourself is a joke. Eddy has laughed about it in the hallways of his school, raising his water bottle to his mouth and pretending that what was sliding down his throat was the burn of bleach. _I’m going to hang myself_ is a familiar statement that sends the cafeteria table skyrocketing into a roar of laughter, leaving Eddy grinning at the chaos he created. It’s become a habit, to slide it into casual conversation with his parents when complaining about the work he has to do _and_ the amount of time he has to practice piano, only for his mother to snicker and call him stupid.

It’s another one of those days where he feels his chest swell with pride as Eddy dives into the situation, despite his parents attempting to start conversations with their holed-in son. A grin rises to his face. It’s a joke, it’s a serious situation, it’s an odd mixture of both as Eddy begins to type unfounded advice into the tiny screen, slamming his fingers against the unresponsive keyboard, screaming underwater to a group chat that is only spilling with more convoluted messages by the second.

Heart pounding, fingers shaking - the _thrill_ is what captures Eddy, trapping him in his own thoughts. This is exciting. Messages being sent, the giddiness collecting in his stomach, the seatbelt being the only thing keeping Eddy from bouncing in his seat. Things keep going, keep flooding into the chat, until there is an update.

_She’s fine. Maddie just told me she was going to take a shower._

He puts his phone back in his pocket, and the car ride continues home.

* * *

Eddy’s first real encounter with the notion of _anxiety_ happens in eighth grade, when one of his friends falters and falls to the ground, stricken with the belief that she’ll never get into Harvard. That she’ll always be a disappointment to her parents with that B on their most recent history test, that her parents will always remind her of her insignificance in this world, how completely and utterly useless she is. 

What happened to the sweet, obedient little girl that breezed through school with A’s and perfect grades all throughout the years? Has she been lost, corrupted by the amount of time she spends playing nonexistent games in her communal bedroom?

Eddy kneels down. He recalls seventh grade health class.

_When I am upset, there is a person to talk if I need to._

And so, he puts a hand on her shoulder and talks. He tells her to breathe, tries to reassure her by saying he knows the classes are difficult, and that B’s are a perfectly fine grade. He drones the exact same words over and over again, like a mantra in steady rhythm, despite her retorts and her constant insistence that it’s not _that_ exactly and her constant tears. It’s lunch and their hallway is beginning to flood with people that stare at her and Eddy - Eddy catches their eyes as he speaks - and he just wants her to relax and calm down, because they’ve all been taught how to deal with these overwhelming emotions; therefore, she should be able to take those feelings and redirect them to something more productive.

Later that week, he’s going to keep being the model student. He and another friend, who Eddy asks to accompany him, will be heading to the counselor’s office and letting them know everything - insecurities that were entrusted to him, secrets about family dynamics - all under the guise that it’ll be beneficial in one way or another. All unaware that in a few years, she’ll look to somebody close to help, only to find dismissal from others and distrust within herself. Because even though the counselor insists that the person who gave her away in the first place will remain anonymous, she knows exactly who she told.

She promises to keep the list of people who knows her as short as she possibly can, to Eddy’s subsconscious satisfaction.

* * *

Eddy’s first real encounter with the notion of _depression_ comes in ninth grade, when a friend of his reaches out for advice - relationship advice, to be exact. Sourcing those platonic relationships he reads about in novels, he gives it and adds a smiley face in the end to protect her against the impending damage. Maybe even wishes her good luck.

_Thanks dude. I feel like you always know what to do._

In math tutoring, Eddy’s always been the smart one. The responsible one. The one that got into a good middle school and a stellar high school. Hell, even _gifted_ , if you would dare use the word with kids so young. His report card is always flooded with A’s, and that makes him the center of attention in a small little place where people struggle with math, much less try and read long English passages. 

He’ll take that attention - he’ll take it _all._ But he knows that to continue on the path of academic excellence (through high school and, as his mother reminded him, med school) requires him to prioritize his own studies over helping his fellow classmates. He lashes out: anyone who takes his focus away from the numbers on the page is chastised, because he _has_ that right. He’s the responsible, studious kid - there’s no time for him to focus on petty things.

Messages begin to pile up: first two little chat bubbles, briefly explaining the situation. Then more, and more, and more, and eventually, Eddy’s notifications on his Windows phone nearly explodes. There are moments where he reads the messages through the notifications before shoving his phone back in his pocket - they’re all the same. Problems, problems, and problems with another girl that won’t look her in the eye.

_She blocked me. What do I do now?_

Anger, self-doubt, and denial. Eddy scrolls past the roll of messages once he gets home and takes a shower, frowning as he reads the past messages more carefully. He’s been giving the same advice, because it’s good advice. It’s the most logical thing to do from this step, so why isn’t it working? Why is she still angry at her parents for yelling at her, why is she still refusing to speak to anyone that is a responsible adult and can work with this situation properly, why is she still breaking down at midnight even after Eddy has explained the simplicity of the situation to her in basic language? 

Most importantly, he’s answered the same damn question too many times already. Why can’t she understand that it’s an abusive relationship? If people are blocking you one day, then being friendly to you the next, then something is very _clearly_ wrong. Why is she so dependent on this one person? Why is it so _damn_ hard to just move on and cut people out of her life? Why is it so difficult to speak up to someone who can actually do something about the situation?

He types a reply out. Explains the same thing again. He says that he has too much homework to do and leaves. But before he gets started on homework, he turns his computer on and finds one of those websites where they’ll connect you to a therapist. For free. He explains the situation briefly, and ends by asking for some advice.

It’s the first time that Eddy is told to give up: _if she won’t talk to someone else, then you can’t force her to; don’t spend all of your energy on her._

Easy. It’s advice he can follow. 

He shuts his computer off and heads downstairs to his piano, his books still untouched in his backpack.

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with _Brett_ happens right before tenth grade, when they’re backstage together before their end-of-year concert. Brett is two years older than Eddy is, getting ready for the entire stress of applying to colleges, and he’s one of the best violinists that Eddy has ever heard, being the concertmaster of their orchestra and beating out an entire selection of seniors for that seat. Not that Eddy would dare admit it out loud.

There’s a moment in their final piece where Eddy has a solo - a grand piano ballade in the middle of their orchestral piece, composed by one of the students at their school. He’s in the middle of running it one more time (there’s a chord that he can never hit, and he _knows_ he’s going to mess it up unless he practices it now), when Brett taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Eddy.” Brett grins. “Would you mind if I tried something?”

Eddy shrugs. He slides out of the piano bench and watches as Brett sits down, rolling up his sleeves. He readjusts his bow tie and takes one last breath before slamming his hands against the keys - a sound that makes Eddy flinch the moment it reaches his ears. The warm lighting in the room seems to flicker, the ambiance appalled at the noise that fills the dressing room. Eddy hesitates, before asking Brett what he is trying to play.

“Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto. The first one.” He smashes the standing piano again, playing chords that resemble jazz more than it does the romantic concerto itself. “Do you think I can play it with my elbow? It’ll probably sound nicer.”

Eddy’s eyes widen. He protests, but is cut off by a cluster of notes that sends Tchaikovsky spitting out the diseased water from his grave and Eddy jumping from his spot. Brett chuckles, a sound that’s a pleasure to hear, a sound that’s music to Eddy’s ears, as he begins to attract the attention of other orchestra members from down the hall. Soon, there’s an audience listening to his elbow playing, with Eddy shaking his head in utter disappointment at this piano abuse.

“You know, you’ve always been a piano god around here.” Brett gets up from his seat once the conductor glances in with a disapproving glare. “You’ve ever tried Tchaikovsky? You can probably play it better than I can. But the real question is whether or not you’ve ever tried playing it with your elbows.”

The orchestra members disperse at the sudden silence, leaving the duo alone in the room. Eddy shakes his head.

Brett laughs again. “Fine, fine. I get it. It’s too holy to be destroyed by elbow playing. Then, how about I write a piece for you? You play it _only_ with your elbows. It’ll be the best piece in the world; I’ll be sending you to Carnegie Hall with that music!”

Eddy doesn’t realize that Brett is serious about his proposition until he receives a message later that night.

_So, wanna try out my composition?_

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with the idea of a _best friend_ comes soon after that conversation, when it’s nearly two in the morning and both of them are still on the phone with each other. It’s been four hours, nearly five, but there’s this inexplicable pull to the phone once Eddy finds the time to call, and their conversations can just never end: they’re jumping from topic to topic, starting with how much Brett despises the kids in his high school and ending with listening to George Carlin together through the phone.

 _“I would have never expected someone like you to like Carlin.”_ Brett is wiping his tears on the other end of the phone - Eddy can hear the remnants of laughter lingering in his voice. _“Always thought you were too innocent to do any of this.”_

Eddy buried his face into his pillow and stifled a snort. “Really?”

_“Yeah. You had those ‘I have my entire life together’ vibes. The perfect Asian child who would be successful in life. Never thought that you would be into necrophilia jokes and shit. Actually, never thought that we would be so similar, of all things. Next thing you know, you’re going to tell me you’ve made your own custom hole with a glove and a towel.”_

He asks Brett to repeat what he just said. 

A hum. _“You’ve never seen the video?”_

Eddy shakes his head. Questions begin to flood his mind.

_“Let me send you the link, then.”_

It takes some time for Eddy to even open the link - he is told that it is an age restricted video, and because Eddy was honest about his age on YouTube, of all things, he spends time creating a new account for 47 year-old Brettward Yaen. It takes some more time for him to find his earbuds and plug it into his computer, praying that the sound of the fan won’t wake his parents up. With Brett in one ear and the video in the other, Eddy can feel his cheeks glowing red as he commentates on what exactly is going on.

“What the fuck, Brett.”

A glove, a bottle of toothpaste, a towel, and rubber bands - Eddy watches with concern emerging in his young eyes and Brett cackles away. He has to pause the video when the roll is shoved between two cushions, partially because the heat in his face is going to light on fire if he continues, partially because he needs a moment to sigh and curse out Brett.

Brett seems to be unable to breathe. _“Oh, come on! There’s nothing wrong with this, it’s just-”_

“I’m not disapproving, I’m just concerned-”

_“Why are you concerned? Nothing bad is happening; I’m just fucking a towel-”_

“You’re absolutely terrible.”

_“Why am I terrible?”_

“Fuck you.”

_“Gladly.”_

Eddy frowns. He reaches over and presses the spacebar before speaking. “Where do you even get your gloves from?”

 _“Oh, I tutored a few kids over the summer. Used some of the money to buy a box - there’s a bunch in my drawer right now.”_ Eddy hears the sound of a drawer opening and closing, followed by the snap of something rubber. _“If you want, I can bring some next time we have rehearsal-”_

“Okay, stop right there.”

The night goes on. Stars glitter by, streetlights filter through Eddy’s window, and the conversation washes away again. It gets late enough that the skies are beginning to turn pink, and Eddy’s eyes are practically shut when he speaks, his voice a low purr into the phone. He’s getting ready to say something when his train of thought is interrupted by a loud yawn.

Brett’s sharp voice jolts him out of falling asleep. _“Tired?”_

Eddy mumbles something unintelligible.

 _“Me too. But I’ve never felt so awake when talking to someone.”_ He hums, the note vibrating through Eddy’s phone. _“I’ve never thought that I would trust a violinist more than anything. Much less someone years younger. And who I haven’t started talking to since like a month ago.”_

A gentle smile in the dim light. “You strings kids are always so isolated from everyone else.”

_“Well, I’m just socially awkward. I can’t say much for everyone else. You know why I never spoke to you?”_

Silence.

_“You have a really intense resting bitch face. Absolutely terrifying. I never wanted to go near you because you looked like you were ready to kill someone.”_

Eddy bursts out into laughter, clasping a hand over his mouth to stifle his snort. He repeats what Brett just said back to him.

_“I’m not kidding! I’m being dead serious here. I never wanted to go near you. Ever. And then I was a little dumb and wanted to hear how Tchaik would be with elbows, and here we are now.”_

The conversation slows to a gentle sway. Eddy shuts his eyes to the sound of birds chirping outside and a faraway boat horn, booming, yet distant - his head begins to droop down his pillow as he hears a breath of satisfaction, of joy from Brett’s end. Wind flutters through the room and swaddles Eddy in a feeling of comforting warmth, his breaths growing deeper and louder by the second. 

He falls asleep to Brett’s sweeping voice: a final _thank you_ as morning breaks.

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with genuine _performance anxiety_ comes at the premiere of Brett’s composition - Theme and Variations for Elbowed Piano. It’s a mini-festival, held during their December breaks, but the concert hall was still completely filled with parents, wondering what great classic they would hear next - Chopin, perhaps, or Liszt, or that one violinist that always shocked everyone with dazzling displays of technique and virtuosity with Paganini.

The pianist before him was playing some Chopin. Eddy was so busy wiping his hands on his dress pants that the sound drowned out the playing on stage. His eyes were scanning the music once again - he couldn’t mess up this time around. At least when composers were dead, they couldn’t judge you for playing a wrong note; if he played something incorrectly, not only would Brett know, the entire world would be critiquing Brett’s composition, wondering why that one chord sounded so off in the sea of clusters and chaos-

“I’ve never seen you this panicked.”

Eddy jumps up at the voice, his head jerking to face Brett. He opens his mouth, ready to retort, when he can hear the shattering applause through the curtains and freezes once more. No time to speak; he has a minute, at most, before he steps onto the stage with his polished shoes, in front of people waiting to hear something extraordinary coming from the prodigy, only for him to disappoint them all by slamming his elbows - out of time, lacking musicality, _disturbing_ , even - onto the grand piano. He looks one last time at the handwritten scrawl of notes on smudged staves-

Brett puts both of his hands on Eddy’s shoulders. “Okay. You need to relax, dude. Nobody’s going to care - even if you walked out and played the worst rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, they would still be cheering.”

“They’re all going to look at me weirdly. And what if I mess up? Make your piece sound like shit?”

“I wrote it with the intention that it’d sound like shit. I’m not expecting it to sound like it’s something descending from the heavens. It’s a little bit of crackhead energy tossed into a piece.” He grins as the other pianist walks backstage, and veers Eddy toward the spotlight. “Now, go, Eddy. And if nobody claps, I’ll do it.”

Brett gives him one last shove, and Eddy finds himself staring at blinding light. His legs are shaking as he makes his way to the front of the stage, setting the music on the stand before giving a bow and sliding onto the bench. He makes little adjustments, his hands fumbling with the air and his foot suddenly growing numb as it rests on the pedal. 

He glances back. Brett gives him a nod from the shadows.

Eddy takes one last breath, and begins to play.

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with the idea of a _soulmate_ comes a week after that performance, when they’re thrown into a Sunnybank dressing room together with two backpacks full of shit. The mall is empty (thank _god_ , because Eddy was mortified at the mere thought of one of the employees even seeing them walk into a dressing room together), and Eddy isn’t quite sure what to say when Brett pulls a beach towel out of his backpack to splay it out on the ground.

“You said you brought your gear? Or at least some of it?”

Eddy nods. He unzips his backpack, pulling out a jacket, followed by a piece of plastic that clangs against the towel. “The chest protector is my sister’s. Didn’t tell her I took it, but I don’t have mine anymore. But yeah - protector first, then the jacket.”

“That’s crazy. Do fencers really wear jackets _this_ thick? Do you guys not die while in full gear?” Brett slides the protector over his head and looks at himself in the mirror, snorting to himself (Eddy presses a finger to his lips) as he stares. “I guess I have boobs now, don’t I? Solid… plastic boobs.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah. As if you didn’t know that already. Anyways, pass me the jacket.”

It’s later on that Brett, still in Eddy’s gear, pulls out a deck of cards and tosses it onto the towel. Something tugs at the corner of his lips as he suggests _strip Blackjack_ \- loser strips; if there’s nothing left to strip, then Brett Yang’s downloaded porn collection on his laptop can serve as some form of punishment. 

“Since when did you get to set the rules?”

“My cards, my laptop, my game. So, my rules.” He begins to shuffle the cards, the familiar ripple of paper against paper brushing past his fingers. “Do you want to play it or what?”

A foolish grin finds its way onto Eddy’s face. “Of course. I’m going to destroy you.”

The problem with the game is that there is no chance to regain your clothes. It’s quite a few rounds later when the entirety of the dressing room is littered with wrinkled clothing. They’re still playing, though, but they’ve both grown rather tired of putting the earbuds on and taking it off a few seconds later and then repeating that - so once again, Brett suggested they simply leave the audio running while they continue to play, dicks fully exposed and hard.

Eddy’s face was still glowing red ( _was that sound even natural in the first place? do people normally make sounds like that?)_ when Brett curses and sends his cards down onto the beach towel.

“Bust. Again.” He shakes his head. “You know what, wanna play truth or dare with a coin? And then we can get bubble tea from somewhere around here. Call it a day after that.”

Eddy Chen just seems to have the worst luck in the world.

He’s tame with his dares, in his opinion. Brett almost looked bored when he was asked to hold a plank for three minutes, like he wanted something more exciting, more chaotic. Eddy sighs as he picks the coin off of the floor - Brett collapses to the floor once his timer goes off with a huff - and flips it; he’s never been one to suggest the things that Brett dared-

Tails. Yet again.

He’s come to associate tails with a feeling of foreboding; it certainly doesn’t help that whenever Brett gets a chance to dare Eddy that his eyes light up with fireworks; it most definitely doesn’t help that Brett spends too many minutes sitting against the wall, finger tapping on his chin, the same devious grin claiming his face. The earbud is still nested securely in Eddy’s ear, the video still running in the background along with the soft piano of the dressing room music, too tame for what was going on.

Eddy’s face is incredulous the moment Brett suggests it - Eddy sitting on his lap and then jerking Brett off - and Brett’s realization is instantaneous. His eyes widen as he breaks out into laughter at Eddy’s reddened cheeks. “No, no. I’m not in love with you or anything. Just horny. Sick and tired of listening to kids at my school talking about fucking each other. If you’re not comfortable with it, you definitely don’t have to do anything - it’s just a little bit of fun, considering we’re butt-naked in the middle of a mall.”

Eddy blinks.

“We’re not friends with benefits either. Don’t get that idea.” Another shrug. “It’s really up to you, dude.”

Eddy blinks again.

“What now? You look embarrassed.”

“I’ve never really,” he tilts his head, “before.”

Brett’s grin seemed to falter for a moment, before rekindling itself again. “Really? You know, I don’t quite believe that - never before have you masturbated. Or thought of it. But you can listen to stand-up with me and understand all the references they’re making. How interesting-”

“I’m being dead serious. Never saw a point, so I never did it.”

“Mm. Alright.” Brett taps his thigh, disbelief still saturating his words. “Get on here, then. I’ll talk you through it.”

With the sound of moaning still blasting from the earbud, Eddy slides himself onto Brett and wraps a hand around his shaft.

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with a _mental breakdown_ is in his school staircase - Staircase B, or the orchestra staircase - an hour before the fencing meet. He’s in full gear, having just warmed up through a few bouts with his fellow teammates, only to be yelled at by his coaches for too many things: missing practices, then completely losing, 5-1, during one of the meets, then having the _audacity_ to not show up to a tournament? And he still dares to show up to this meet?

There’s no control when he’s in the staircase. No control of breathing, no control of tears, no control of the horrid sounds that escape his mouth as he struggles to shut himself up. Because classes have just finished, and the students that are heading down the stairs, chattering with each other, fall into silence at the sound of the inhuman snort that escapes Eddy. 

It’s his fault - it’s _entirely_ his fault for being absolute shit, and he recognizes that. It’s not difficult to see. He regrets signing up for yet another chamber group, thinking that it would look nice for colleges. He regrets applying to so many different extracurriculars that all he thinks about is his conflicting schedule. He regrets trying to do too much, because he knows - he’s more than certain - that everyone is better than him at everything now: athletics, academics, and even _music_ . He knows there’s nothing he can do to outshine his classmates other than doing _more_ , beyond what would have been normal.

He fumbles for his phone, thumb shaking as he scrolls through the contacts before pressing it to his ear.

_“Eddy? What’s up?”_

“I need you to talk about anything. Please.”

 _“Just talk?”_ Brett hesitates. _“Is everything okay? You sound like you’ve been-”_

“Brett, _please._ ”

Why does everything have to be a competition? He wasn’t and isn’t an athletic person. He just went into fencing because his sister did it and he needed a sport to look impressive with universities. Everyone in his grade is stellar at something - Jackson’s just won a research award, Brett went to the park today, Sofia won another writing competition yet again - but what the hell is Eddy doing with his life?

He wonders if his coaches are right. If they’ve only realized how much of a mistake they’ve made by making Eddy a starter. Brett’s currently eating ramen in his room, chicken flavored, with a little bit of sriracha. He notes that all of the flavors taste the same anyways. Eddy sniffles, his breathing still spiraling down its own path as the footsteps around him continue on and on and on, as everyone disregards the kid in the all-white attire.

Eddy wants everything to calm down. He wants to go in and fence and destroy the other team, but the coaches have already established that there’s absolutely no way he can do that, with the lack of skill and talent and technique that Eddy holds. Brett just dropped a chopstick, oh shit, now he has to wash it. Brett turns on the sink, but his father just washed something with scalding hot water, and he let out yet another expletive as his hand runs under the faucet.

He wants to run out of the school and go back home so he can practice for their performance in two weeks, but he’s already established that he’ll be dragging down the rest of the quintet with his shitty piano playing, because why can’t he get that one part right? Why is he bad at everything he does? Is he truly - finally - worthless, after years of faking his own worth?

 _“Oh, ha! Michael found my chocolate stash again.”_ The sound of a drawer opening, then slamming shut. _“You want to hear me bully my little brother into submission? I’m going to make sure he pays. And then I’ll rehide the chocolate.”_

Brett seems to pause, listening to the harsh breathing that forces dizziness into Eddy’s head. His voice softens the next time he speaks. _“Seriously, dude. I don’t know what’s going on where you are. But whatever it is, I have more faith in you than anyone else out there. And I think you’re going to slaughter whatever comes next.”_

“I’m so,” Eddy’s voice is low, “fucking tired.”

_“I can hear it. You always do so much. Let’s go out someday, at the end of the year, or maybe when orchestra rehearsal isn’t as hectic for the two of us again. We can get bubble tea, and maybe crash a park. But for now, don’t you dare think about burning yourself out. You’re going to push through this shit. And you’re going to attack everything that stands in your way.”_

“I don’t know.”

_“You are. I know you are. You and your resting bitch face are going to destroy everything. I know for a certain that you’re going to be perfectly fine, because you are my best friend. Nothing gets in your way.”_

It’s a few minutes later that Eddy finds himself on the strip, the metal of the blade resting in his hand. His eyes are still puffy and the world around him is still in its own haze, but he’s beyond ready. He clears his throat, saluting his opponent before getting ready, and imagines that Brett is at the bleachers, cheering, when Eddy destroys his opponent, 5-0.

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with _abuse_ is at music school, when he’s in the middle of his piano lesson: Chopin’s Chanson de l'adieu is interrupted by the sound of yelling by the staircase. His mind is too focused on the notes that he’s struggling with, however, and it isn’t until after silence hits that he realizes who exactly is outside, their voices growing louder by the second - it’s Brett, for certain. The other voice is more feminine, more high-pitched, and Eddy has a suspicion that it’s his mother.

He’s itching to run out of the lesson room, and sprints the moment he can leave. This isn’t his business - he knows that - but he’s going to be there for Brett once things calm down. His bag hastily slung over his shoulder, he jumps at the sound of a _crack_ the moment he opens the door, followed by a terse silence.

Then, the sound of approaching footsteps. 

Eddy glances up, his eyes lingering on someone who looks too much like Brett for a split second, before his feet carry him over to the staircase. There stands Brett, looking up at the other levels of their school, a hand cradling his reddened face, his violin still on his back. He seems lost, the gaze in his eyes far and distant, until he notices Eddy standing by the entrance; and immediately, there’s a luster in his eyes.

“Hey.” He manages a slight grin despite the unreadable look in his eyes. “You sounded awesome in there.”

“What bubble tea place do you want to go to today?” Eddy stomps over, assertion pounding into the ground with every step; he takes Brett by his free wrist and drags him down the stairs, his body floating behind Eddy. “How about the one across the street? We haven’t been there in some time.”

Silence. Eddy swings the door open and takes a grand breath of polluted city air.

Brett eventually shrugs. “Wherever you want. I don’t mind.”

“Then let’s go there. Alright?”

One last tug, and the duo is out of the suffocating air of the school. Eddy’s grip on Brett’s wrist tightens, as they run across the street (a passing car honks at them, but Eddy ignores it) and into their sanctuary.

* * *

Eddy’s first encounter with the idea of a _boyfriend_ is in the park. The same beach towel that was stained with Brett’s cum some time ago was set down on the grass in front of them; Brett nods his head toward Eddy as they sit down and find themselves resting on each other’s shoulders as they scroll through more stand-up comedy and reminisce: because _god_ , they’ve gone so far in their friendship. That just a year ago, they hadn’t bothered to speak to each other, and now, they knew each other better than anyone else? Eddy shook his head thinking about it, at how lucky he was.

But there still is that momentary sense of panic, that feeling of his heart stopping, when Brett asks to say something serious and puts his phone away. When he wraps his arm around Eddy, and Eddy can feel Brett’s chest pressing against his arm, his heart pounding itself away as the seconds go by. Pedestrians continue to walk, wind continues to blow, leaves continue to fall, Brett is getting ready to leave for conservatory tonight, and Eddy knows.

Why couldn’t he see it sooner? He knows his reply, he knows what’s going to happen, and already he is filled with the sense of dread as Brett whispers the words into his ear, his voice low and shaky.

“I-I was wondering,” he hummed, “I know you just broke up with Maria, but I… I’ve been waiting for you guys to do it officially before I asked. Would you, maybe, want to be my boyfriend? We already talk every night, we’ll be able to manage the distance, and we’re pretty much already in some sort of a relationship-”

“I,” Eddy hesitates, “Brett, I’m sorry-”

Eddy proceeds to do the dumbest thing possible.

He sobs.

And the proceeds to continue his rejection.

Brett isn’t bothered by it; or, well, so he claims. They go on with their day, laughing at more stand-up and how crazy their orchestra projects have been recently; they laugh about bubble tea and ramen; they talk about what they’ll do, now that Eddy is staying here to finish high school, and Brett is heading off to a different city for college. Promises are exchanged - promises to stay in contact as much as they possibly can, to hang out whenever Brett returns home during his breaks.

They talk about their futures - Brett brings up that he’s always been interested in aquascaping - and that if both of them really don’t find anybody, they’ll room together for all eternity. Go on road trips. Have fun. Travel the world, spend plenty of time in Japan - Eddy’s suggestion, and keep performing together as a piano-violin duo. Do whatever the hell they feel like doing, free from the world around them.

Brett is the first one to bring up Eddy sobbing too many hours later through a text message.

_You know, the more I’m thinking about it_

_The more I wonder why the fuck you were sobbing. Of all things._

_You dumbass. An absolute fucking legend._

Eddy grins as his screen lights up. He reaches for his phone mid-Liszt, and types out a quick response.

_Fuck you too._

* * *

Eddy’s most recent encounter with _mental health_ is when Brett calls him, all the way from college. He’s in bed, running through his emails one last time with the lights off when his phone suddenly vibrates and sends him shooting up from his seat. He picks up the phone as soon as he sees the name - they don’t call as often now because they’re both equally as busy, but he makes it a promise to always answer when he sees Brett’s name flash across the screen, the photo of them at Sunnybank grinning at him. “What’s up?”

 _“Hey.”_ Brett sniffles. _“Sorry. You’re probably busy and whatever, but I miss you.”_

“I know. I’ve missed you too, dude. But you’ll be back from the con in a few months, right? Then we can head out and do stupid things again, maybe play volleyball-”

_“I don’t want to come back.”_

“What? What happened?” Eddy raises an eyebrow at Brett’s sniffling again and his unsteady voice. “Are you alright?”

 _“Mom just called. Yelled at me for never picking up the phone. Said I didn’t care about the family anymore when I told her that I was busy and couldn’t do anything.”_ Brett curses, switching to a mix of English and Mandarin - an unfamiliar tongue - as the sound of a door opening can be heard through the phone. _“So fucking selfish. Always said that college was easy for her, that she was able to do everything while attending her classes, and that I should be able to do the same._

_“I don’t get what she has against me. Does she just not have enough of a life that she feels the need to yell at me all the time? ‘Oh, I have nothing to do tonight - let me just call Brett and yell at him for an entire goddamn hour and remind him of how useless he is in this world.’”_

“You’re not useless, you’re beyond amazing-”

 _“Not according to her. Is it my fault that she’s like this to me? I always wonder if it’s something that I did wrong - if she’s just blaming me for something that I didn’t realize I did in the first place.”_ Brett sighs. Eddy hums in pity, uncertain as to what to say. _“I want her to know that she’s responsible for me, me and all of my issues. I want her one day to find my corpse strung up in the air and to realize exactly what she did wrong.”_

Something about the certainty in his voice makes Eddy freeze.

_“I’m not going to do it. Told myself I wouldn’t. But it’s always an option, you know? Nobody’s going to find me if I do it. She’ll probably just laugh. Compare me to Michael, say that I was just someone who was too weak to live. I want to be free, Eddy - if the con has made me recognize anything, it’s that what I grew up with wasn’t normal.”_

Eddy swallows. “You’ll be free soon. It’ll take time-”

_“I don’t have time. I don’t want to deal with her anymore. I’ll go back, she’ll tell me to do everything even though things are supposed to be distributed between me, her, and Michael, and then she’ll sit her lazy ass down on the couch and yell at me when I say I need to practice the violin. And Dad - I love him so much but - he’ll just sit there. And he’ll let her yell at me. I have a life outside of housework and chores; Michael’s stuck indoors all the time, just yell at him! Is that difficult?”_

“For her, it is.”

 _“Exactly. I-I need to do something. If she calls and yells at me again, I’m going to snap. Just you wait.”_

The call continues to go on. Brett continues to rant. Eddy continues to lie there in bed. It isn’t until nearly an hour later when Brett hangs up - Eddy wishes him all the best and to take care of himself, because what else can he say? - and Eddy finds himself staring out his window.

There are the stars, passing by, glimmers of faded light waving to both Brett and Eddy and their parents and their teachers and their coaches and everyone in the whole damn universe. His phone rests on his chest, the screen warm from pressing it against his ear; he wonders what it would feel like to be in their dream future. Just him and Brett and the night sky, ready to be conquered by this duo of dauntless souls.

Eddy shuts his eyes and dreams: dreams of a universe where he can sock Brett’s mother right in the face and take him away, away to a universe of safety and security, where they’ll be for the rest of eternity; dreams of a universe where they’ll live in an apartment together, lights glowing brighter than the spotlights of the concert hall, with aquariums scoring the wall and shelves of souvenirs; dreams of a universe where they’ll be two people standing on stage, bowing as people throw flowers at them, because they love them, because they love Brett, because they know Brett deserves the world more than anyone else.

He wakes up to his alarm before the sun is even up, and takes one last look out the window.

Staring back at him are two dots of light.

**Author's Note:**

> unedited. will return to edit eventually.
> 
> you do not ever assume intentions behind why a creator would want to write/draw/edit something, much less act on those intentions to antagonize said creator. the audacity to attack creators who explore sensitive themes for supposedly romanticizing them when there were other issues at hand is rather upsetting to see, and sets a poor precedent for the future of the creator community.
> 
> keep creating what you want to create. don’t let other people dictate what you should do.
> 
> anyways, on a lighter note, thank you all again for reading. take care, stay healthy with your loved ones, and thank you once again <3


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